


No One Was Ever Gonna Tell Us No

by hazel_3017



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2005 world junior championship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Pre-NHL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 12:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3851443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazel_3017/pseuds/hazel_3017
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sidney isn't much for clubbing, but he's a team player and his teammates want to go--if they want him to go clubbing, Sidney will go clubbing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Was Ever Gonna Tell Us No

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction

There is a club, the Americans tell them gleefully, that will look the other way at the door if they’re willing to pay a little extra.

Sidney’s teammates are willing to pay a little extra. So are the Russians, apparently.

Sid thinks a bunch of underaged hockey players going out clubbing is a spectacularly bad idea—they’re in the middle of a tournament, for God’s sake—but his teammates largely disagree, and Sidney, though not very keen, is a team player first and foremost.

If they want him to go clubbing, Sidney will go clubbing.

Besides, he wants them to like him. There’s a lot of attention on him in these games, from media and fans alike—Sidney knows it can be a lot, and he doesn’t want to inconvenience the guys or alienate himself from them.

So he lets Getzy talk him into wearing the jeans that have already started to stretch too tight across his ass—Jack is gonna kill himself laughing when he figures out Sid is going to have to get  _another_ pair of custom-made jeans. It will be the second pair this year alone—though he refuses to wear a shirt, putting on a simple black tee under his jacket instead.

It’s late December and Sidney shivers in the cold, scowling when Pears throws an arm across his shoulder, drawing him close to press a sloppy kiss against his cheek.

Sid wrinkles his nose; some of the guys had a couple of beers in the hotel before they left, and he can smell the alcohol on Pears’ breath. “Urgh, get off, Pears. You fucking stink.”

Getzy chuckles. He helps drag Corey away only to put his own arm around Sid’s waist, leaning down to nuzzle his neck. “You’re so precious, Sid. Like a baby deer. We should call you Bambi, except, you know, you’re pretty much ace on ice.”

“Shut up,” Sid says lamely, blushing under the roundabout praise. He elbows Getzy’s side to get out of his hold and seeks refuge with Shea and Bergy. They’re both pretty low-key guys and can usually be trusted to keep Sid safe from opportunistic pranksters— _God_ , Sidney wishes Shea had been with them in Helsinki. He’s pretty sure Shea would never have let Getzy steal his clothes and roll him into a fucking carpet.

It had been a pretty harmless prank, relatively speaking, and Sid knows Getzy wouldn’t have bothered if he didn’t actually like Sid (because hockey players are stupid and show affection in questionable ways), but he’ll never forget the looks he’d gotten as he rushed across the lobby in nothing but Jack’s pilfered Superman boxers.

Bergy grins at them, herding Sid in front of him as the line before them shuffles closer to the club entrance. “It’s only ’cause you’re so jaded that you would think so, Ryan,” he says, and before Getzy can answer, there is a sudden commotion off to the side as a contingent of Russians show up. Ovechkin is, naturally, at the helm of the group, and he lights up when he sees them in line, leading the way as he bullies his way into the middle of the queue. 

Sid frowns disapprovingly, and the crowd starts murmuring in discontent at the way they cut into the line. A few brave souls look ready to confront them, but ultimately think better of it when they get a good look at them.

Hockey players aren’t exactly small, and the Russians are bigger than most.

“Sidney Crosby!” Ovechkin exclaims delightedly, brushing past Pears and Getzy, heading straight for Sid. “You’re here! Not so boring after all!” He clamps his hands down on Sidney’s shoulders, holding him fast as he leans in to kiss both his cheeks affectionately.

Sid sends a desperate look at Bergy, but he only smiles back, seemingly content that Ovechkin isn’t about to do anything too bad.

“I tell Zhenya,” he continues, his voice loud and booming. “I tell him, Zhenya, Sidney Crosby is very bootylicious. He knows how to use ass on ice, but not so much on dance floor. I tell him, Zhenya, I don’t think Sidney Crosby will come out to club tonight, but here you are!”

He sounds unbearably pleased about it, eyeing Sidney like a proud older brother.

Sidney isn’t quite sure what to say. He settles for nodding silently, keeping a wary eye on Ovechkin as the guys talk around him, chatting easily despite language barriers and opposing nationalities.

It seems like no time at all before they’re at the head of the line, the bouncer, a big surly man with a stern face glaring at them until Ovechkin shoves a handful of bills into his hands.

“Oh, how much do I owe you?” Sid asks when he understands that Ovechkin paid enough for him too. 

Ovechkin shakes his head and pushes Sidney through the doors. “Is my treat, Sidney Crosby,” he says, and Sidney suspects he’s probably going to call him by his full name for the rest of the nigh. Ovechkin breaks out into his trademark grin. “Can pay me back in dance.”

Sidney shakes his head frantically. “I don’t dance. At all.”

Ovechkin gets a worrisome gleam in his eyes at that, but before he can say anything, the rest of their group comes barging through the doors, loudmouthed and in high spirits.

They move into the club and claim a total of four booths to fit them all, and before he knows it, Sid is ushered in between Bergy and another Russian, with Ovechkin seated across from them as some of the older guys head to the bar for drinks.

“So, Sidney Crosby,” Ovechkin says when Getzy returns to their booth with a flourish, gleefully doling out bottles of beers with the help of Evgeni Malkin. Sidney is pretty sure that is Evgeni Malkin. “Why you don’t dance?”

Sidney straightens in his seat, losing all interest in Ovechkin now that he recognises Malkin.

Ovechkin is the better goal sorer, he knows, but Malkin—Malkin is the complete player of the two, more dynamic and a better playmaker.

It is possible Sidney has something of a crush.

Ovechkin, because he has dedicated himself to being a pain in Sidney’s ass, notices. He smirks, edging further into the booth to make room for Malkin. “Zhenya! Sit, sit. Sidney Crosby was just telling us why he don’t dance.”

Malkin sits, and while he seems to recognise Sid’s name, grinning wide when their eyes meet, the rest of it goes over his head.

Ovechkin rolls his eyes and repeats it in Russian, or that’s what Sid thinks he says, anyway.

He must be right, because Malkin looks from Ovechkin to Sid, his grin turning a little filthy as he lifts his hands in the air for a gesture that Sidney is pretty sure is meant to encompass his ass, speaking in Russian all the while.

He takes a swig of his beer to hide his blush. He doesn’t think it works.

“Zhenya says he doesn’t believe. Sidney Crosby can’t have such bootylicious ass and not know how to move,” Ovechkin translates, slapping a hand on Malkin’s back in approval. “He says he thinks you lie.”

Sid blusters. “I’m not lying!” And because he’s never known when to quit, he follows that up with, “I’ll prove it. Right now.”

Malkin looks confused, and maybe even a little concerned when Sidney starts pushing at Bergy so he can move out of the booth, but then Ovechkin leans over and says something low in Russian.

Malkin nods and stands from the booth. He smiles gently at Sidney, maybe sensing he’s lost some of his bravado now that he’s suddenly on his feet.

Sid isn’t lying when he says he can’t dance. He really has no clue what to do here.

Malkin has no such problems. He grabs Sidney’s hand in his and starts dragging him out onto the dance floor, stopping only when they’re surrounded by a herd of bodies. It’s so crowded, Sidney notices with some surprise, that they’re pretty well shielded from the rest of their group, and despite feeling uncomfortable with so many bodies brushing up against him, Sid feels a little relieved that only Malkin will bear witness to his poor dance skills.

He flinches when someone jostles into him from behind, and he goes stumbling forward, right into Malkin’s arms.

He doesn’t seem to mind, chuckling as he steadies Sid, big hands settling on his hips before drawing him close. Very close.

“Okay?” he asks, voice rough around the vowels as he catches Sidney’s eyes and lifts his brows in question.

Sidney nods silently, his mouth dry all of a sudden. He lets Malkin guide him, Sid’s hips swaying where Malkin’s hands move them.

He isn’t quite sure what to with his hands, but when Malkin’s fingers inches further back, digging into the meat of Sidney’s ass, he flushes, gasping as Malkin’s knee works itself between Sid’s thighs.

He throws his arms around Malkin’s shoulders in an effort to steady himself, and shamelessly grinds back against the knee between his thighs, groaning at the friction against his dick and only distantly aware that they are actually moving to the beat of the music.

It feels good. Sidney is so hard he’s afraid he’ll burst, and his head feels too heavy. He lets it fall forward, resting against Malkin’s chest as he feels one of the hands on his ass move up, just far enough for Malkin to dip his fingers inside the waistband of his jeans.

Sid groans.

He feels a pressure under his chin, Malkin’s knuckles tilting his face up. “Okay?” he asks again.

“Yes,” Sidney breathes out. “Yes. Very okay.”

Malkin holds his gaze, leaning in, slow as if to give Sid time to pull away.

Sidney stares back, lips parting in anticipation. He closes his eyes when Malkin’s mouth finds his, moaning under the pressure.

It’s been so long since someone last kissed him, and longer since he’s gotten laid. It’s his draft year, and Sidney has had time for nothing but hockey. Even now, he knows clubbing is the last thing he should be doing; they’re in the middle of a tournament. He’s playing for Canada and the whole world is watching. If they’re caught, it won’t just be bad, it will be fucking catastrophic, but Sidney is finding it hard to remember any of that.

He’s caught up in the feel of Malkin, his knee pushing against Sid’s crotch, his mouth, moving slick against Sidney’s.

It’s filthy and wet and so fucking good, Sidney really just want to push Malkin up against a wall, sink to his knees, and suck him off.

He groans at the thought, pulling back from Malkin to suck in a deep breath. Malkin grins at him, chest heaving with exertion, and Sidney grins back, helpless to do anything but.

He lets his arms fall from Malkin’s shoulders, reaching out to grab his hand before heading back for their booth. There’s a bunch of the Americans there now, and Sidney doesn’t see any of his teammates, or even Ovechkin.

He only spares a brief thought for Getzy and Pears, knowing that Shea and Bergy will get them out of there safe. He lets go of Malkin’s hand to manoeuvre around a couple of the guys, reaching for his jacket.

It’s only when he turns back to Malkin that he realises they may not be on the same page.

“Uhm,” he says. “Do you want to get out of here? Catch a cab back to the hotel?”

Malkin eyes him for a moment, but then he grins. “Hotel?” he repeats, and Sidney grins, nodding.

He’s lost some of the urgency by the time they’re back at the hotel, and he feels shy suddenly, unsure of where to go from here now that the adrenaline has left him and he feels more calm.

He waits, shifting on his feet awkwardly as Malkin pays the cab driver. He’d stopped Sidney when he had reached for his wallet, shaking his head stubbornly until Sid relented and let him settle the fare.

“So,” he says when the cab pulls away and they’re left standing by the curb. “We should probably head in, huh? We’ll get in trouble if we’re caught after curfew.”

Malkin tilts his head. It’s obvious he doesn’t quite understand, but he must get the gist of it because he says, “Sleep?”

Sidney smiles at that. “Sleep,” he agrees, but instead of heading inside the hotel, Malkin crowds into Sidney’s space, forcing him backwards until he has Sid pressed up against the side of the building.

“What,” Sidney stutters. “What are you doing?”

Malkin pushes closer until they are flushed together, his arms lifting to box Sidney in.

He dips his head, stopping when his lips hover over Sidney’s, so close it would be nothing at all for him to lean up, to kiss Malkin like he wants to.

“Pretty,” Malkin says, voice quiet as he stares intently at Sidney.

“I—” Sidney breathes in deep. “Malkin, please.”

Malkin places a hand on Sid’s cheek, thumb stroking over the sharp cut of Sidney’s cheekbone. “Geno,” he says. “Can call Geno.”

“Geno,” Sidney repeats, and Malkin,  _Geno_ , finally kisses him.

They get lost in it, mouths moving slick against each other in a wet and dirty glide.

Sidney loses track of time, feels as though he could spend forever just making out with Geno, and doesn’t pay attention at all when another cab pulls up and his missing teammates spill out of the car.

“Sid?” someone says, and there’s a sharp whistle, so loud it can only be Pears.

They turn to look at the newcomers, and Sidney groans, knowing he’s missed his window of opportunity.

“Sorry,” he tells Geno, pushing against his chest lightly to move around him. “I should go.” He shrugs regretfully, and Geno nods in understanding.

“Sid.”

Sid glances at Bergy. He looks antsy, and he must be worried about how late they are, Sid knows. There will be hell if they’re caught.

“I’m coming,” he says. He looks back at Geno. “Good luck,” he tells him, because there’s really nothing else to say. He means it, though, even as he wants nothing more than to win, to take the gold from whoever they end up playing.

It’ll probably be Russia.

Geno nods at him, and when Sidney turns to leave, Geno catches his arm, reeling him in for a final kiss.

Sidney smiles when he hears Geno mumble, “Good luck,” against his lips.

They share a look before Getzy walks over to physically drag Sid away, and it’s the last time Sid will talk with Geno for the rest of the tournament.

It feels a little like unfinished business. 

About one year and six months later, Sidney knows why. 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr](http://hazel3017.tumblr.com/post/113479233196/1-and-or-10)


End file.
